oh sinful rose
by the milliner's rook
Summary: AU. Five years after the monarchy is overthrown, a noble finds a forgotten princess in chains.
1. i

**i.**

* * *

Afterwards, he tells her that they'd met before.

They were children at the time, and he remembers that she was dressed in silk and ribbons. Pretty gossamer clothes torn so easily by her reckless grace. She took his hand and ran into the garden, pulling him towards a masterpiece of green. Without his notice, she'd let go and turned her attention to a rosebush, pulling free the flower and its thorns, and set upon the task of plucking its red petals apart. She made him hold every single petal and wait until the sun was its most radiant. Then he could let go. But they had to wait for wind to clear all the clouds first, roaming free in the open air, and dishevelling the trees.

She placed her hands on top of his, making sure that his hands were sealed and demanded that not one petal should slip through their fingers. They waited for the breeze, its soft touches, and the flyaway strands of hair, and curiously, he watched her decide. The palms of her small hands lowered, sloping over his wrists until she reached the underside and raised them with an odd capriciousness. She wanted him to let go.

He did what she asked without a second thought.

Red petals scattered around them, soaring like feathers in autumn sunsets held in the breath of warm wind, and she laughed and laughed in delight, the sound of her laughter carrying the rose petals higher.

Did she remember?

Karin doesn't reply, staring out the window.

He continues. He was surprised to see her at the market, torn and tattered and dressed in chains. Perhaps others considered it karmic justice, but the sight brought him no joy. He had thought fondly of her, of that one memory he had.

There had been no word of her and her family after the uprising. The rebellion had left many dead in its wake, and he'd struggled to reclaim the respect that graced his noble name after. He'd presumed her dead, all but forgotten to the world as a member of royalty.

Yet there she stood, about to be sold to the highest bidder, glowering defiantly at them all.

"I _am_ sold to the highest bidder." Karin says, interrupting him without a glance. She longs to touch the sunlight. Her voice is a bitterly practised monotone, hardened by ashes and blood, fear and hate. She doesn't look at him. "Even if you grant me freedom."

He sighs, and tells her. "It's yours."

Absently, Karin rubs her wrists. There are sore red marks under her fingers, angry shadows that will not disappear easily. It stings under her touch. The hurt burns at her pride.

He asks her again, softly. "Don't you remember?"

Karin looks at him at last, the colour of his eyes, the colour of his combed-back hair, the colour of shadows that sweep across his face. There was a careful uncertainty about him when he turned the key to unlock her manacles and watched her hands fold into her lap. They started the journey back to his home then.

She can still feel the metal on the hollow of her bones, the weight of rust dragging across her skin as they pulled her to the centre of a castle of ruins.

She ignored their leers, their taunts and their insults.

She is slave to no one. But they tell her that her master goes by the name of Hitsugaya Toushirou.

He tells her that she is free, whispers it in her ear as he takes her to his carriage and unchains her and that he knew her once when they were mere children.

"No." Karin says, former princess, former slave, dead to the world.

She doesn't remember him at all.

* * *

_a/n. Trying something new. Let's see if making it a story of drabbles makes me write more. I do love this pairing._


	2. ii

**ii.**

* * *

Night has fallen when they arrive at his manor.

The carriage driver lets him know with a brief knock outside, before pausing to ask if he's awake.

"I am now." Toushirou grumbles, stretching his legs in the limited space available. He blinks blearily through the darkness and remembers that he is not alone. "One moment." He says, brushing back the sleep-mussed hair from his forehead and reaches to draw back the curtain. Through the window's reflection, he sees a servant waiting for him to give his command.

The princess sleeps, veiled in moonlight, small and curled like a wild cat. Asleep, she reminds him more like a starving kitten abandoned on the streets. It's a sad sight to see, and he falters for one moment.

It almost seems to be a crime worthy of treason to wake her.

"Karin." He says, deciding to wake her nonetheless. Better that, than let her be confused the next morning. She doesn't stir, and he tries again, louder this time. "Princess."

He wonders if he should call her that, as cruel as the thought is. It's her birth right, to be loved and adored, and yet the people who were meant to love and adore her preferred to take it away, vanishing in fumes of smoke. They gave her scars instead, cast her an iron crown and twisted it to bind her wrists, and blamed her for the sins of her ancestors.

He pities her, he thinks, to go so far for one cherished memory.

He's a fool with a sentimental heart. Someone told him this, and he agrees. He doesn't know her at all. Why should she remember him? It was only a vain thought.

Times may have changed, yet he holds onto the past.

She is still a princess to him.

"Karin," Toushirou says, the syllables of her name sharp like thorns caught in his teeth. He leans over to touch her shoulder and shakes her as gently as he can. "We're here."

She makes an unintelligible sort of noise, and he refrains, falling back into his seat as her eyelashes flutter open. There's a trick to the slant of ivory light that skims her skin, and it reveals the creases to her clothes, the unconscious flexing of her muscles, rapid blinking and dilated pupils. A wild cat prowling in a starless night.

"Where?" She asks, breathing slowly, and he waits for a moment of recognition, distrust settling on her shoulders even as she relaxes.

"Home." He says simply, and to him it's enough. He nods and the door opens. "You can stay here for as long as you like."

She frowns, but steps out of the carriage, accepting the extended hand. Toushirou's too tired to tell her that there's always a spare guestroom available, just in case. Already Hanatarou begins to lead her to one of many.

"Princess," Toushirou calls her one last time, the title suiting her better, and she stops. His feet touch the ground. "I know you don't believe me, but I mean it when I say you're safe."

It too dark to see if she reacts, and one by one, they all leave.

He stays there for a while, feeling nostalgic of all the summers he spent here as a child. It's been too long.


	3. iii

**iii.**

* * *

Yuzu wakes her with a smile as bright as daybreak.

"Tired," Karin mumbles, buried under satin covers, her head beneath the pillow. She thinks she can hear her sister laugh, sweet like birdsong, murmuring something cheerful in her ear.

_The sky's so blue today. Come see._

She'd much rather trade the sky for sleep, and sleep a hundred years more—

The sheets fly up in the air, she's awake, grey eyes trying to make sense through the messy strands of hair, and the sky is blue, so very blue. Sunlight streams through the glass and Karin is alone.

Invisible ghosts cradle her, caught in the prism of light, their faces just out of sight. She sits quietly on the bed, ignoring the bed sheet that's now strewn and crumpled on the floor. Her chest is tight.

Karin waits.

She forgot where she was. She doesn't remember falling asleep, and she doesn't remember her dream, but the bed is comfortable and the linen is soft, and for one drowsy moment she let herself believe that she was in the past.

It's not a mistake she'll be making again.

The ache lessens, it becomes easier to breathe and Karin stands. Treading on the quilt, she walks until she touches the stone floor and continues walking.

She reaches the window, opens it. Her knuckles clench, nails digging into the palms of her hands as she leans outside. The sky is blue and the air is cold.

Karin can't hear the birds anymore.


	4. iv

**iv.**

* * *

The white dress they find for her is too big, but the sleeves are long and the hemline falls past her knees. It'll do for now, they say. It'll cover the bruises, they mean.

They tell her that the master has already sent for a dressmaker, but it will take a few days before one arrives.

It's odd how disconnected Karin feels from this. This, which would have been normal, before. Waiting for people to call on her and tell her that her bath has been prepared, let her soak in the hot water. She does it by herself, scrubbing her skin until it's raw and red, rinsing her tangled knots of hair free from dirt and grease.

The servants stand at a distance. It's her one request. They can hand her a towel and offer her clothes that don't fit, but they can't touch her. They give her space, as she wishes, chattering amongst themselves and still they fuss over her.

Perhaps she would have found it equally uninteresting standing here, gazing through people and listening to the sound of their voice rather than what is being said. They speak clearly, yet to her, it's the same as the hushed whispers that she has become accustomed to.

She has lived three lives now, the first by a stranger that shares her face, the second that learnt that hope was meant to be crushed into the ground, and the third begins today.

All three lives connected to the noble.

"Princess." His reflection says, sliding into view after knocking on the door. Everyone shuffles out, leaving them to be undisturbed in the guest room.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Karin does not turn.

She wonders, suddenly, if he's lying. Then and now. Perhaps she isn't free. Perhaps he never met her at all. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive.

There's always a possibility.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, half covered in shadows and the light of the sun as he leans on the door. She can't see his face reflected at all.

Her hands smooth out the creases of her skirt, as Karin tries to think of alternatives to _I woke up and thought my sister was here._ Her stomach rumbles as she thinks, and Karin answers honestly, ignoring the heaviness she now feels in her heart. "Hungry."

He's quick to reply. "Breakfast is this way." She turns and faces him at last, and the noble gazes at her, still in that carefully guarded manner that she remembers from last night, the same cool cognizance, before he adds. "If you'll follow me."

They walk briskly out into the corridor, and Karin can't remember the surroundings from last night, the portraits of his ancestors staring at her with a haughty disposition. Later, she supposes, there will be a time when she is able to look at them in greater detail. For now, the daylight floods in through the window, a chill slips past her bare shoulders and down her spine, and she walks beside him. Sighing, she tries to pull the sleeve over her shoulder, to no avail.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

They reach a stairway, velvet blue carpet at their feet, a mahogany bannister descending, and Karin wonders how he can have so much wealth, when all of it was taken from her.

He stops. "I'm sorry."

_For what?_ Karin nearly asks, before glancing and trying to make sense of him. There could be so many answers to that question, and she has no patience for martyrs. She shrugs. "Bad dreams happen."

It's not so much a dismissal than it is a mantra. The secret is not to let others know.

Keep moving forward.

In dreams, the lines blur. The lives she lived merge into one, and she wakes up confused. Yesterday's ghost clings tightly, silencing her voice, and reality crashes around her.

It's odd that as she descends down the stairs, careful to where she steps, that it feels like she's dreaming now. There's something surreal about it, plucked out of a fairytale, and Karin can't quite believe it. Doesn't believe it, even now.

"Princess," Karin can hear it, the quiet mockery in his voice that she doesn't like, doesn't trust in this air of uncertainty, whenever he uses that title of the past.

"Don't." Her voice is sharper than she intended. Heat unfurls in her chest, prickly and uncomfortable and searing as her temper snaps. Why does he have to remind her of everything she has lost, when she was a different person, and distort the lines she has drawn?

She's not a princess.

"Stop calling me that."

Nobody is going to protect her.

"My name is Shiba Karin."

Not like before.


	5. v

**v.**

* * *

Breakfast is served in the gardens, on a small glass table set in the shade. The princess sits in stony silence, eating slowly.

Toushirou turns his attention to the orchard of magnolia trees, their budding flowers soon to blossom. He liked their temporariness, the tragic beauty of spring, of the hope it promised and the ache it brought.

He had carved his name on one of the trees, measured his height on another, and fallen asleep on all of them. Somewhere, a yew tree sighs, carrying the secrets he'd once whispered as a child, the wishes that never came true, and some that did.

"Stay here a while." Toushirou says, repeating the words from the night before. Her name is silent, omitted, and it hangs suspended between them, shadowed by her title. "At least until you recover."

"And then what?"

Her voice cuts him deeper than he expects, a steel blade, blunt in her inflection. Yet still it resounds, catching sunlight, unpractised and clumsy, and he is startled.

"What happens after?"

"Whatever you want." The choice is hers to stay or go. He would bear her no ill will if she decided that there was somewhere else she wished to be. "You are free."

"No. I'm not." She replies, flatly. Standing up, the princess draws herself to her full height, and stares at him intently.

He studies her then. In daylight, she looks much too delicate and slender, the slighted pride flushing onto her cheeks a faint pink. She is too pale, too wry, too bony, and he tries to find a trace of that radiant girl he once knew, his memory of her that fades away in as she starves for the sun's cold kiss. It's unfair, he knows, and yet still he seeks for a single glimpse of brightness.

"Why did you do it?" The princess commands and he is powerless to resist.

He looks past her, at the sharp collar of her shoulder, at the loose strands of hair, at anything but her unflinching gaze. "I couldn't leave you there."

"Yet you left everyone else."

"I didn't intend to take anyone." His voice is sharper than he intends, and she stills, jaw tightening.

"But you _took_ me." She hisses, echoing him, spitting his words back. There's a difference between bought and take, and neither of them make him a better person.

"Because I knew you." It's the selfish, honest truth and he does not regret his actions. He has never claimed to be selfless. "I couldn't leave you there, knowing that."

Scorn speaks volumes in her muted rage.

"I couldn't take everyone."

"You only took one." Her voice is detached, and the princess does not look at him. He exists on the periphery, past the locks of hair that fall over her eyes. "You could have bought more."

_Just like you bought me._

He ignores what goes unsaid. "Would it have made a difference? I can't fight the system, the way things are." He continues, not letting her interrupt. "I'm not that influential, princess."

She ignores the last part, considering his words carefully. "You could have freed them. Have them work for you, if you wanted. Let them go, instead." There's a forced civility in her tone, and quiet rage slips through. "You would have made a difference."

"They're not my problem." Toushirou answers, dismissive. Why should he care for people he does not know?

Her hands flex, shoulders tensing, and she stands stiffly, gazing at the cloudless sky instead. There are bruises on her arms, where the flimsy dress betrays her, and the slave traders marked her.

"They could have been." She says, smoothing the creases of her dress, refusing to look at anything but the sky.

He has no answer that will satisfy her, Toushirou realizes, growing tired of this circular argument.

"Why didn't you run?" He asks instead, changing tactics, watching her with curiosity.

"I did." The princess replies simply, sunlight suddenly brighter, and her hand covers her wrist, sliding under the sleeves. "Why do you think I was in chains?"


	6. vi

**vi.**

* * *

Karin skins an apple out of habit, the knife steady in her hand. The noble had left her in the garden, but not before stating that she could explore his manor to her heart's content, free do as she liked, then added as an afterthought that she should not stray too far, if she wished to see the outside. At least, not without company.

Silently, she wondered if he might be referring to himself.

Karin merely nodded, preferring to eat instead.

He left her to her thoughts and the remaining food on the pristine white table, murmuring that he had a letter to write.

For the first time, she is alone.

She can feel the warmth of the sun and yet she shivers at the realization. She is truly alone in a garden that is a distant reminder of her childhood, decorated by different trees still waiting to bloom and let her bear witness to the charm of magnolia flowers. Pretty splendour that she once knew.

She would stay then, Karin decides, making her resolve clear as glass. She will stay until the end of spring, and watch the flowers wilt.

Karin owes him that, slicing the apple in her hand, then pauses midway, suddenly annoyed. That alone isn't enough; at most, it's the price for that forgotten memory.

This is a debt she doesn't know how to repay, and she owes him far more.

Leaving was out of the question. How could she live with herself, when she had a debt she hadn't paid back?

She will find a way; Karin thinks determinedly, the taste of apple sharp in her mouth. Then she would be free.


	7. vii

**vii.**

* * *

A week passes, each day as peaceful as the last. It was almost comforting, if Karin could stop herself from feeling empty every morning. Time slipped easily from her fingertips, like sand, like water, and as the sky darkened as the day progressed, she remained at a loss, not knowing what to do.

She explores the manor, haunting the corridors in pursuit of some lost secret that waits to be found. The stone walls are cold against her knuckles, and Karin opens windows when she can, reaching for the dust that glitters in sunlight, the rays of warmth breathing on her face. Proof that she is alive.

It's a strange sensation, but Karin grows accustomed to her newfound solitude, prefers it.

He understands, somehow. That noble. Perhaps he gave an order, or perhaps it was silently conveyed, but the servants leave her undisturbed unless it's time to eat, knocking on the door each time.

Even then, meals are a quiet affair. The sun sets, casting its shadow over tranquil skies, and they eat in silence for most part, the food mouth-wateringly delicious.

Occasionally he tries to engage her in conversation, asking her questions, telling her abstract things, and sometimes she replies. He doesn't seem to mind and takes no offence when she stays silent.

For her part, Karin takes her fill, ravenous until she isn't, and keeps the questions she longs to voice aloud pressed close to her. Then she mutters her farewell and departs, bare feet stepping onto the grass.

She finds the library one day, bright and colourful and with countless books stacked on wooden shelves. She tries to read until she tires of it, the paper fragile and yellow and trembling beneath her fingertips, threatening to tear. She finds another book with beautiful illustrations, studying each page as earnestly as she can. There's something familiar about it, and Karin mulls over the various pages, wondering why, until someone calls for her.

Another time, he asks if she'd like to delay the dressmaker.

"Bruises fade." Karin replies flatly, her grip tightening on the silverware, as she meets his gaze. She feels like a ghost, wearing a white dress that is ill fitted and fastened by safety pins.

"They do." He concedes, but frowns nevertheless. His brow furrows, and Karin wishes he could spit it out, those words that he refrains from uttering.

"If it bothers you, then send for him later." Karin says simply, cutting her meat. "I can wait."

He looks at her, teal eyes searching for something she cannot give.

It irritates her.

"And if he asks—"

"Accidents happen. It's not hard to understand."

It's an excuse she's heard before, used from one slave trader to another, easily dismissed. She can still see the crooked smile, the wringing hands as the deal was made, gripping her arm too tight and not letting go until they're sure there's no way out.

They knew how to hurt her, those men who captured her and thought her nothing more than a pretty face. They'd forgotten who she was, or perhaps they'd never realized, perhaps they never cared, but they knew that a pretty face sold well, and that was all that mattered.

Karin sets her cutlery on the china plate as carefully as she can. She's not hungry anymore.


	8. viii

**viii.**

* * *

He decides to delay the dressmaker for a week. Toushirou justifies it in his study by silently wishing the princess to be healthier – her cheeks to be rounder, redder; her shoulders softer, less pointed; still he finds her too thin and willowy. Sometimes when he looks at her, it feels that the gentlest breeze could break her. The only way to observe her regain a healthy pallor is when they dine together, because he cannot bring himself to find her at other times of the day, and not once has she stumbled into his study, as she explores the mansion.

Mainly, she alternates her time between the garden and the library, walking in a daze. As if she cannot believe that she is here, keeping herself to herself.

The sun treats the princess well, and often she spends crisp mornings in the garden, her bare feet treading on the grass, lost in her thoughts.

Shoes, he thinks absentmindedly, as he reaches out for a sweetly fragranced letter, rereading the slanting handwriting until it's imprinted in his mind. If the princess wished to explore the grounds, beyond the garden and the stables, then she must have shoes.

And yet, despite his good intentions for taking care of the princess' well-being, for all his hopes that she would one day regain the happiness so brilliantly captured by roses and sunlight, he wished, somehow, that it would be easier.

Kiyone found the princess' behaviour frustrating, too aloof and reserved to be liked rather than tolerated, whereas Hanatarou became intimidated by her callousness, the rigidity in her stature. Her remarks cut conversations to an impromptu end, difficult to recover when the princess would ignore a question and refuse to respond.

Though it was uncomfortable at first, instead of growing used to be at a loss at what to say next, her habit of arbitrariness had begun to grate. And yet, it was understandable, he felt after some thought, the lifestyle she lived was so different and detached from social etiquette of nobility, the finer nuances that affected reputations and blissfully ignorant of implications.

Yet it never felt as if the princess strayed from the truth. However blunt and cold she might be, Toushirou always was under the impression that she was honest.

"Still." Kiyone huffs, "it doesn't mean she has to be so… so—unfriendly_._"

"We don't know what happened to her. And she doesn't seem to want to talk about it, either." Toushirou reminds her, despite sharing her sentiments, sympathizing, "I think, given time, the princess might…" He pauses; searching for an appropriate word, then gives up. "She might be less hostile. But only if we let her be."

He doesn't blame her for her current untrustworthy disposition, even if it is a little trying in the moments they spend together.

"Or." Kiyone raises her eyebrow. "You could ask."

He shrugs. Something tells him that it would be in vain. "So could you."

Kiyone sighs. "You're hopeless, sir."

Toushirou smiles to himself, at that, if only briefly and Kiyone is dismissed, looking to see where Hanatarou has gone next, and if he is sleeping by the stables.

In the end, after the decision is made that the princess is deserving of a less tawdry dress, something that will suit her even after she recovers, the dressmaker is summoned.

Toushirou lingers, waiting outside just in case it's necessary to intervene, as the measurements are made. He's not sure what he should do.

And yet.

"Do you have a preferred colour?" He hears, and both the princess and the dressmaker step outside, offering a curt nod, another handshake. They will talk later, discussing the cost.

"Black." The princess answers simply.

"But—" Toushirou is surprised, in spite of it. Of all colours, she chooses black. "Why black?"

She looks at him, her face sombre, her eyes hard, and instantly he knows that she will say something that will cleave his words in two. He is not asking in order to persuade her to wear a different colour; it is only that he does not understand.

Black, for widows, and death, for melancholy, and bittersweet loss.

"I am no one." She says softly, so only he can hear and Toushirou recalls that black is also for the enigmatic and the unknown, the shadows left forgotten on the walls, the identity that has been taken from her twice. In her mind, she is not a princess any more. "Remember that."


	9. ix

**ix.**

* * *

Karin watches him leave, standing on the stone steps, mulling over the dressmaker's parting words.

He'd recognized her instantly, a telling expression flittering on his face before he smiled like a stranger, observing her silently with a tilted glance, and then closed the door behind them as he set off to play his part, another charade that unsettles her for the first time.

It hurt, this estranged familiarity and the silence that existed between them. He walked around her, examining, scrutinizing, deliberating; taking measurements, saying nothing, the price of shame seared on her face, before his hand returned to his chin, his grey eyes expressionless as he avoided her gaze.

For a moment, she wanted to scream, shout, _break._ She wanted him to hold her in his arms again, lift her into the air, and make her witty remarks that made her laugh, just like they used to. She wanted to smile until it hurt, and Yuzu was there with her, sitting nearby, reaching, and all they had was innocence and laughter and knew nothing, nothing at all.

Instead, Kisuke looked away.

_Where were you?_ Karin asked his shadow, the creases in his clothes, in his ever elusive movement in this room. _Why didn't you—_

He told her to turn then, with none of the warmth that she recalls, and she does so, trying to submerge the memories that threaten to spill from the corner of her eye, images forming in her mind already, nails sinking into the palms of her hands, trying to ground herself in reality.

She blinks, once, twice, inhaling smoke, the dusky touch of sunlight another reminder for the cloying heat that sticks to her lungs, the silent shriek kept silent by the biting of her tongue. Fire spreads across the sky, the silhouette of the carriage nearly swallowed whole.

There's not enough air.

"Princess!"

Karin is too dizzy to correct the noble, and her hand lurches to the pillar, slams into it, feels the cold granite beside her, beneath her, supporting reality with a flash of pain. She focuses on that, her mind too muddled to insist that she is fine, that she stumbled, and cannot see anything but failure of the past.

The granite is rough against her hands, her teeth press harder on her tongue, try as she might, Karin can't clear the smoke from her lungs.

"Are you…"

Next, she focuses on his voice, tries to breathe slower, still, he sounds far away.

"Princess."

"Don't." She mutters, more shaken than she cares to admit, opening her eyes and watching him flinch back, hating him for a second as she regains some semblance of control. Her hands will stop shaking. The pain would soon fade.

The noble's expression is unreadable, as he looks at her, and then to the meandering path. He stands very still.

"Did he—"

"No." Karin looks at him, searching for something, the sunset on his skin, then gazes outwards, where the silhouettes are merged with darkness. "He didn't. It wasn't that."

She doesn't move, thinking about the way Urahara had turned back and regarded at her, meeting her gaze one last time before Hanatarou had closed the carriage door. How he murmured words spoken so quietly that her breath caught.

He didn't know.

"It's nothing." Karin insists, smoothing out the folds on her white dress. "The sun was in my eyes."


	10. x

**x.**

* * *

Toushirou has always liked the secrecy of midnight. Warm summer nights. The lull of leaves swaying. Stars above them.

It may not be summer yet, and spring has not truly begun, but Toushirou dreams of things to come all the same.

He has always liked midnight best.

Moonbeams spill through the window, onto the limbs of his imaginary lover, who waits for him between the sheets.

He turns and faces his empty bed, letting himself pretend for one moment, then sighs, shattering the illusion that only gives him grief.

His thoughts are too loud, and this is why he likes midnight, it puts them to rest.

Except tonight there is a ghost that haunts the manor tonight, treading wooden floorboards, slipping through the cracks. She has been a pale faced ghost ever since she watched that carriage depart, saying nothing when they dined together, leaving him in the garden without a word.

Everyone has their secrets, and the princess is no different.

Let her be, Toushirou tells himself, yawning tiredly, if she wishes to confide in him, he will listen.

But for now, he will sleep and dream of someone who leaves stardust in her wake.


	11. xi

**xi.**

* * *

Karin stirs.

She does not remember falling asleep. She does not remember dreaming.

Her sleeping patterns have changed, and each time she is woken by someone with dark blonde hair who sighs and gives her an expression she can't understand, Karin feels tired.

It's not just her limbs, heavy useless things in morning light, as she tries to get her bearings. She's not sprawled across the stairs, her elbows stiff with awkward angles, or the leaning beneath window that overlooks the garden, there's no cold breeze behind her neck this time. Karin relearns how to breathe, let her lungs inflate and sing, _out, in_, and takes the woman's hand. She watches the world slant, feels it fall off its axis again before her legs become steady. Her spine straightens and she tries to looks tall when her shoulders are carrying too much weight. When she lets go of her hand, Karin is standing with her arms heavy at her sides.

It's not just her limbs.

It's her mind.

Her mind is tired, like a fog has entered her and messed everything inside, distorted everything into beautifully terrible patterns and fabrics that he used to make and let her wear with a grin, no matter how badly it fit. It spreads, like the shine of soft silk beneath Kisuke's fingers, turns her cold and grey and frayed at night, unravelling by darkness and lost thoughts.

"What's gotten into you?" She asks curiously, and Karin wants to say _I don't know_, but she hasn't stopped talking, then remembers that the other servant boy called her Kiyone and keeps her name there on the tip of her tongue. There's a frown on her face as she tries to understand. "This is the fourth time I've found you like this. You have a perfectly fine bed. What's wrong?"

Karin blinks, and realizes that she's in the library.

"I wanted to read something."

"And other times?" Her scepticism fills the spaces between bookshelves as her hands settles on her hips.

"Sleepwalking." Karin answers easily, though that's not the truth. The truth is she doesn't know. It became a place she didn't want return to.

She isn't convinced, and Karin doesn't blame her.

"There are other beds," she says eventually, "if you don't like that one."

Her head tilts to the side, dark blonde hair falling past her shoulder, cutting the angles of her cheek, and her half-chewed lip. "You can talk about it." The words come out slowly, carefully, like everyone else who treats her like she was glass. Built to break. "If you want."

Her first instinct is to refuse. Instead she stills, muscles tensing.

"You make things so _difficult_." The servant mutters, rolling her eyes. Her jaw twitches, and she refrains from saying more for a few seconds. She looks resolutely at the ceiling, stating simply. "It's not—you don't have to. I just want to let you know that you can."

Karin lets go of the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"What happened?" She asks again, softer, and still, Karin can't answer.

She thinks maybe she dreams of chasing carriages, but she stays up until she can't so her feet don't get muddy in the grass. Karin finds bruises on her legs when she washes in the bath, has found new bruises the last three days, knees pushed into her chest, and thinks to herself very quietly. Maybe she dreams of getting lost in the woods surrounded by nothing but darkness and invisible chains.

"I don't." Karin stops, and starts again. "I don't know." Karin says, because it's true, because it's not, and her thoughts are muddled, and she's tired and doesn't know what else to say.

Her voice becomes gentler.

"Try."

One last push.

Karin folds in on herself, feels her shoulders tense as her head lowers, feels her knees begin to shake and tries to hold on to the fact that no one is going to hurt her here. She trembles all the same, bites her tongue until her words are even, dull monotone things that convey a lie that she couldn't care less, except the truth shakes her like hat and clogs dancing on stone slabs and it shows in her voice.

"I don't want to talk about it." She wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, she says: "I don't know how to trust." Her breath catches, and she stops. That's _enough_. That's always been _enough_ and she can't say any more than this. She won't let herself say more.

She's said too much.

"Okay." Kiyone nods, and says nothing else.

Okay, like _at least that's something_. Okay, like _at least you're being honest_.

Okay, like she's waiting for the sky to fall down and it doesn't, it remains vast and blue and unreachable.

"Okay." Karin mumbles, and wishes that she'd run after that carriage after all.


	12. xii

**xii.**

* * *

"Pancakes! They can mend the heart and soul of anyone!"

Breakfast is in the kitchen, yet to start, but Karin is lead there nonetheless, quietly collecting her composure, ignoring the shake to her hands as she smooths out her dress while she trails in the shadows.

The cook is a burly man who likes to punctuate his words with emphasis and proud declarations that make Kiyone roll her eyes.

"If they could, that would make life a good deal easier." She tilts her head, voice clipped, her knuckles pressing into her hip. "Is that what we're having today?"

"It's a thought." He shrugs, eyes sliding past and then he notices her. Karin knows the exact second because something in his eyes widen, and he leans forward, though he remains sitting on the table, messily placed palms on his knees, crooked fingers waiting to for the next topic of conversation to appear. He's a man who talks with his hands, and they fly into motion as he opens his mouth. "So you're the extra mouth I've had to cook for this month."

His glance to Kiyone doesn't escape Karin's notice.

She coughs. "Don't be rude, Sentarou. This is our guest." There's an edge to her voice, and Karin watches her through the corner of her eye, wary. "Be nice."

"Like you, Kiyone?" He replies easily, smirking as he hears her huff. "I can be nice. Nicer than nice." His attention shifts back to Karin, and he takes a good look at her face, peering at her with unbridled curiosity. "You in the mood for pancakes?"

Kiyone snorts. "You call that nice?"

"I call that being friendly. What do you want, some manners? Not like I could look to you for some pointers." The reply is instant, and an exchange of bickering begins.

Karin stands awkwardly beside them. Bemused, she watches them grow red-faced at each other, raising their voices until they stop suddenly, turning to her.

"You didn't answer the question, miss." The cook says, a little bit gruffer and offhand than before.

She thought they'd forgotten. Karin blinks, remembers what he meant and then nods once. "Yes."

A slow smile spreads on his face. Kiyone laughs. Karin feels more out of place than before.

"Right then, pancakes coming right up." He stands to his full height, catching the apron Kiyone throws at him, and together they begin to prepare the food.

Karin sits on the stool and watches them talk amongst themselves. The air fills with the smell of fresh pancakes.

The noble stumbles in at that point, when Karin has taken a second bite. His hair is messy and unkempt, falling past his eyes, curling slightly at the collar of his silk pyjamas, and he all but drops onto the table, mumbling words she can't understand.

"Here's your coffee, sir." Kiyone says, and Karin has nearly finished her breakfast.

"Thanks." He mutters, raising his head to glance inquiringly at Karin.

She swallows the last of her pancake before another fills her plate, and she stares at him.

It's strange.

"Is something wrong?" He asks, and Karin doesn't say anything. She looks away and returns to eating her food.

It's nothing.

She doesn't really listen to him when he informs her that her dress is ready, chewing slowly and mulling over her thoughts. The conversation then changes with banter sparking almost immediately between the two servants, absentmindedly wondering if somebody is oversleeping again, and the noble reins them in with a terse comment, before once more another argument is quick to follow.

It _is_ strange, she thinks, head lowered so she avoids their gaze, how freely they use each other's names, and yet when she is addressed hers goes unsaid. Just like before.


	13. xiii

**xiii.**

* * *

"Do you think you could get used to this?"

His voice breaks through Karin's muddy thoughts, and she turns to face him dispassionately. The curtains are open, sunlight shining on him. Behind him, his manor begins to disappear.

"Travelling by carriage." The noble adds, clarifying.

Karin blinks, considering his question, then lets her shoulder drop. "I suppose."

It doesn't seem too hard. Adapting is possible, as long as she can set her mind to it.

They fall back into silence and Karin resumes gazing outside, trying to pacify her thoughts, still unsettled from this morning. Hot water couldn't put her at ease, and Karin's nails dug into the palm of her skin, creasing her dress, as the suggestion was then made to have another bath when she returned.

Perhaps she will have relaxed by then.

It is difficult to feel relaxed now when all her muscles are tense and Karin takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, exhaling slowly. Her hands lie flat on her calves.

She dreads her dreams.

She does not want to dream at all.

"You could walk to the nearest town if you liked." He begins to speak, and Karin remains watching the trees that pass her by, with hints of regaining their leaves. Karin listens, but she doesn't look at him. "It's not too far from home."

"Then why are we going by carriage?" Her voice sounds even, and she spots a bird's nest.

"I prefer it." He admits freely, continuing. "But I think it would be good if we went for a stroll later. Not today, but at some point in the future. Fresh air will do some good and—"

"Fine." Karin interrupts and tries to quell that flutter of nervousness she feels in her stomach. It's nothing too bad. She hasn't felt well since morning—but she's certain if she can contain those feelings, bottle it and trap them deep into the recesses of her mind, then they will pass. Nobody has to know.

She glances at the noble through the corner of her eye.

He looks pleased.

The trees are a more interesting sight, and Karin tries, for a moment, to imagine herself walking through them in each season. She sees herself running instead.

It's difficult to hold onto those thoughts, so she lets them go and thinks back to Kiyone's words when she woke and felt the world tilt slightly off-balance. It's not the same sensation as the bumps on the road. At least her feet are steady on the floor of the carriage. It's not enough, but it's something she can concentrate on.

_Trust. _She bites her tongue before she gives into the temptation to say it aloud. It sounds loud in her thoughts already, progressively becoming louder and louder the more she reflects upon it. Frustration makes her throat thicken, and Karin is grateful that today he isn't conversational. His voice is like interference, distracting her from the stagnant echoes.

She isn't blind to the extended olive branches, but the habit of practised carefulness and a constant guard has become second-nature. It must be the sleepless nights that make her waver, and only because she wanted the conversation to end.

The town comes into sight.

Her thoughts are calmer, somehow. Enough time has passed for them to settle, and Karin straightens her shoulders.

"I have some business to attend to, but I can give you directions." He informs her, and Karin waits, secretly relieved that he will not be accompanying her. "I won't be long."

"Alright." She nods, and refrains from asking why he doesn't recognize the figure from her past.

He holds her hand in his as she steps down to the uneven solid ground, trying to regain balance. This is not like before, Karin tells herself as her hand falls to her side, when she watched Urahara leave. This is different.

The noble tells her the address to the dress shop, and Karin repeats it, parroting his words exactly. He nods, teal eyes bright and satisfied. They part ways.

Something unknown rises in her chest, twisting painfully as she approaches, stumbling forward and never glancing back until there it is. She takes a deep breath, clears the smoke from her lungs, and pushes the door open.

He looks at her, grey blue eyes widening, and Karin stops, stunned.

Then it bursts, sharp and hateful and lightning hot, filling her with blind rage as he says her name, and it flares, arching into a fierce intensity sparking through her hand.


	14. xiv

**xiv.**

* * *

She slaps him.

Karin slaps him and the air resounds around them, empty, terrifying and real.

He doesn't look at her, statue still, hers to command and destroy.

If she wished it, he would let her.

Her hands curl into balled fists and they shake. Not because of fear, she realizes suddenly, breathing fast. She has stopped watching him from afar. She has stopped running. She has reached his carriage. And as she stares, standing in front him, Karin becomes conscious of how truly furious she is.

"How dare you." Karin breathes, nails digging deeper so she doesn't strike him again. Her skin is too tight, paper thin, and every part of her is on fire, wanting to smoulder his pretty dresses in her anger, the heat that radiates so brightly from her cheeks. She wants to hurt him. She has. "Kisuke, _how dare you._"

The lines she has so carefully constructed for herself are gone, ripped apart with this surge of fury, but Karin isn't confused in this moment. Every feeing of betrayal and lost innocence comes rushing through her veins.

"I'm sorry." Urahara Kisuke says simply, his eyes downcast. "I didn't know."

That's not good enough.

Her heart beats in anguish and her mouth opens, words refusing to appear, evaporating instantly.

"Why didn't you look for me?" Karin asks, numb. Her shoulders rise and fall, and she struggles to find enough air to breathe. She isn't surrounded in a burning room anymore; she's drowning, trying to figure out how to swim. She is ice cold and shattering. "It's been five years. I've been so alone."

"Karin—"

"_No!_" Shrill, she yells. "Don't touch me." If he does, she will run, and never look back. So she steps back, out of his reach.

She chokes back a sob, because this is how she fights, this is how she survives. By depending on herself, restraining all her emotions and holding them back. But she is tired of fighting and surviving. She is tired of restraint. She is tired.

"You were there—" Karin gasps, and the air _breaks_ "—that day—" and it hurts to say it aloud, but now she's started, she can't stop, and it spills from her lips in an ugly mess. Her chest heaves, and she's thirteen again, reliving the moment against her will, so painfully clear. "—and you ran."

She is no longer that exuberant happy girl who adored him and wore her heart on her sleeve.

Karin will never be that person, that princess, ever again.

"You left me." But part of her is still running after him even then, screaming his name until her mouth is hoarse, desperate for him to look back and take her someplace safe. "Why did you—"

"I'm so sorry." Kisuke says, and her vision blurs, hot and wet, and Karin blinks rapidly, trying to regain her sight, a glimpse of sorrowful grey blue shame.

Only, she can't, because her legs have given way, and he catches her in his arms. They slowly sink into the floor, and he smells so warm and familiar and safe that she can't say the rest, kneeling in his empty shop. He feels like silk and security and something she can believe in. He is solid and terrifyingly real.

"I hate you." Karin whispers, giving way to the tears. She wants to tear his fine clothes to shreds, see how he likes living on his bare bones with no hope left. _"I hate you."_

Her head rests on his shoulder, and she's barely aware that he's placing his hand on the back of her neck, murmuring soothing sounds through her hiccups, reduced to a pathetic mess.

_I ran. _

_I saw everything burn down._

_I lost everyone._

Karin wishes that she could find her self-control and push him away, clamp down her emotions and walk out of this shop without a second thought, but reality clings to her like his enveloping hold, and she can't shut anything out anymore.

"They made me a slave." She says so quietly, words mumbled against his shoulder and his hold tightens. She doesn't imagine that. She feels it and it aches through her ribs but she doesn't tell him. It's proof that he isn't ignoring her. She is here. He is real. "Nobody knew who I was."

They didn't recognize her, and that meant that they were free to treat her however they wanted.

Urahara doesn't say anything. His words are meaningless. She doesn't believe in them. But he doesn't let go and the last piece of restraint crumbles.

Her emotions won't stop, cresting and flooding over her until she is drained dry.

Karin cries until there is nothing left.

* * *

_For some happy thoughts, know this: today I got a haircut! I also like waking up to the sound of rain. _


End file.
